


The dubious case of the lost fountain pen

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Even a man like Sherlock Holmes can catch a cold from time to time and so he is not in the best of moods when a client imposes upon him with the rather trifling matter of wanting the detective to retrieve the fountain pen belonging the French vice ambassador, that he has lost... One-shot!





	The dubious case of the lost fountain pen

The dubious case of the lost fountain pen

 

One morning in early December 1884, I found my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes in a particularly querulous mood. He had caught a cold during his last case and I as his friend and doctor had suggested, that he should take some rest and stay in bed for the next day or two. That had been the evening before. Now he sat across from me at our table, waiting for his breakfast to be served, openly defying my advice.

“This cold is really most inconvenient!” he growled, as Mrs Hudson, our landlady arrived with his tray in her hands.

“But I thought you had solved your last case.” I tried to appease him, though with little success.

“Yes, yes, I have solved it,” he cried impatiently. “It was an inconsequential, trifling matter. I have no doubt that the police could have solved it easily, had they engaged a more experienced inspector than Inspector Belcher. It would have been solved in no time at all, I am sure. But, as it stands, he is the least promising man on the force I have ever encountered.”

“He must have something in his favour, or he would not have been promoted to the rank of an inspector.” I reasoned, though I had only seen the man once and had not too high of an opinion of him myself.

Holmes grimaced from behind his handkerchief as he blew his nose.

“Like being married to Superintendent Eldridge's daughter?” he deadpanned.

Pouring himself some tea he took a sip before lifting the metal cloche covering his plate. Underneath a nice bowl of steaming hot porridge awaited him, adding to his chagrin.

“Mrs Hudson, pray, what is this?” he asked the landlady, who was just clearing the remnants of my own breakfast.

“That, Mr Holmes, is porridge. And until you get better, that is, what you will have to eat.”

My friend stared at her angrily then gazed at me, looking reproachful.

“I guess, I have to thank you for this abominable meal.”

“You are unwell and you should eat something wholesome and light on the stomach,” I replied to his, justified, accusation.

He had just opened his lips to contradict me, when the doorbell rang out violently, the sound of it reverberating throughout the whole of the house, till, with one last violent tuck, the bell gave one more sad clank and then fell silent.

“Must be something pressing.” Holmes mused, still eyeing his breakfast with much disdain. “Since I wager, once more our bell wire will need replacing.”

“You are in no state to take on another case,” I warned him, seeing the redness of his cheeks contrasting with the overall sickly pallor of his complexion and the moisture on his forehead telling me he would be struck down with a fever soon enough. But judging by the eagerness with which he rubbed his hands together in expectancy, I knew I was preaching in vain.

A moment later a young man, neatly dressed – well, almost too neatly – was led into our sitting room, looking agitated and fearful, turning his immaculate top hat between his trembling fingers over and over again. Facing the two men eyeing him with blatant curiosity, it took him a moment to collect himself.

“I am so sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes.” He finally began, a light accent to his words that were otherwise flawless in their pronunciation. “I am aware that you must be a very busy man and I am also aware that at first glance my plight might be a rather mundane one.”

The stranger glanced from Holmes to me and back, still tremendously nervous and fidgeting with his hat.

“Well, why don't you make yourself comfortable and tell me what the matter is?” Holmes managed to articulate in an increasingly raspy voice.

“I see, my visit comes at a rather inconvenient time,” our visitor hesitated. “But I can assure you, I would not have come here this early in the day if my errand was not of the utmost importance.”

He, at last, put down his hat and gloves and loosened his scarf, though did not take it off and threw his overcoat over the back of the chair closest to him, before sitting down on it.

“My name, Mr Holmes, is Frederic Dubois and I work for the French embassy where I am private secretary to Charles Blanchard, who currently serves as vice-ambassador here in London.”

Holmes, as was his habit, had leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed. Again our visitor hesitated, looking slightly annoyed, at the sight of the man he wanted to ask for help, seemingly falling asleep in front of his very eyes.

“Mr Holmes, my case is a rather delicate one.” he finally said, looking positively uncomfortable.

Holmes, for a moment, gazed at him, before asking, with an amused twitch of his thin lips: “Do you mean politically or personally?”

Our visitor lowered his eyes, staring at the abandoned bowl of porridge my friend had decidedly pushed to the middle of the table when his client had first entered the room.

“Likely both,” he whispered, a tint of colour appearing on his young and handsome face. 

“Either way, M. Dubois, I can assure you, Doctor Watson is at least as trustworthy as myself and everything you have to tell me can be disclosed to him with equal trust and discretion. And considering,” here Holmes pulled out his already crumpled handkerchief again, “you might need to rely on him as much as you do on me.”

Seeing the reason behind the detective's words, Dubois took a deep breath, not unlike a diver shortly before dipping under water.

“As said, I am private secretary to M. Blanchard and as such enjoy a great deal of confidence, with many secret pieces of information passing through my hands. In the professional as well as in the most private sense. Now, if M. Blanchard has one weakness it is wine and women.”

“Which actually make it two weaknesses and too much of either or even both can cause a lot of trouble.” Holmes mused, nestling deeper into his dressing gown.

“In this case, it is not the wine,” Dubois answered, bashfully.

“I thought as much.”

“About half a year ago, M. Blanchard met a young and beautiful woman of questionable repute – a danseuse, she calls herself, but I doubt she has ever done much dancing. Anyway, he got absolutely besotted with her, and I, to my great dismay, was made their courier.”

“Where was it, that he has met her?”

“One evening we went to our club – the Lionel's – and a group of gentlemen decided, that the company of men alone was not to their taste and hence they decided to carry on to another establishment who offered another kind of entertainment.”

“Sometimes it is easiest to call a spade by its proper name. So the gentlemen decided to visit a brothel. Which one?”

Dubois looked slightly irritated, but answered without hesitation: “Venus's Apple.” 

“An expensive past time.” Holmes mused. “Is the lady in question still working there?”

“No, she now resides in a small but exclusive apartment not too far from M. Blanchard's residence.”

“Carry on.”

“As said, I was made their courier and they have developed a rather ingenious way of communication, using a fountain pen.”

“Would a dipping pen or a pencil not have served an equal purpose?” I could not help asking.

“Good point, Watson. So, how was the fountain pen used?” Holmes asked. “Since, as Doctor Watson has pointed out, it is hardly essential for them to write their billets-deux.”

“No, you are both right. The fountain pens are not used to write the notes, but to transport them.”

My friend opened his eyes, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

“So, there are two pens?”

“Yes.”

Holmes nodded his head for the man to carry on with his story. He did so by pulling out a plain black fountain pen from the inside pocket of his frock coat. It did not appear to be very practical as it clearly leaked.

“This, sir, is my own pen. They were issued to us a while back and all employees of the embassy own one. Now, the twist, quite literally actually, to this pen is, that the screw on the back can be detached and, if one is careful, a small slip of paper can be inserted, given the reservoir is not filled completely, because else it will leak.”

He took off the back of the pen as he had described, revealing a small space where the poppet thinned out to a narrow metal rod. Despite this demonstration, I could see Holmes' impatience grow once more as he had begun to massage his temples in an attempt to relieve an impending headache I ventured was troubling him.

“M. Dubois, I doubt your troubles lie with the method of utilising your – or any other fountain pen. So the pen was used as a means to send their love letters undetected. I assume M. Blanchard is a married man?”

“No, he is still rather young – only two years my senior, but he is engaged to Miss Elisabeth Heatherly, youngest daughter of Sir Robert Heatherly.”

“The chancellor of the Exchequer?”

“Yes.”

Holmes let out a deep breath, then with a raised eyebrow added: “So, will you enlighten me, how all these rather random pieces of information connect? Apart from the obvious infidelity, I cannot detect anything as yet, that would justify a broken bell wire.”

“One of the pens was lost.”

These words were followed by an uncomfortable pause, till, with an almost hysteric laugh, Dubois added: “So I end up being the one person, troubling Sherlock Holmes about a lost fountain pen.”

“Calm yourself, man!” Holmes croaked, his voice slowly but surely leaving him.

Getting up from my seat I poured two glasses of brandy, ignoring the early hour and handing one to Holmes and one to our still fairly hysteric visitor. Downing the glass in one, he managed to brace himself and with a much calmer voice now continued.

“Anyway, it is most essential, that the missing pen is retrieved before a most mortifying scandal can ensue.”

“And who was the unfortunate person to lose this titillating pen?” Holmes asked, slowly sipping the amber liquid, his voice slowly improving with every gulp he took.

“I was.”

“Oh dear! And when did you discover, that it was lost?”

Our visitor blushed visibly.

“When I pulled out this pen.” He held up his own. “And handed it to M. Blanchard so he could retrieve the message.”

“Is there any way, one can distinguish between all these pens?”

“Some have edged their initials into it – but then again, in this case, it would defy their purpose.”

“Obviously.”

“So, no, from their outward appearance one cannot distinguish between them. So I keep mine in the left-hand inner pocket of my coat and the other ones – as I only ever have one of them at a time, I keep in the pocket on the right-hand side.”

“So no visible difference?”

“No.”

“So M. Blanchard ended up with an empty pen, then?”

The blush re-appeared on Dubois' face, considerably deepened. Holmes who had watched him closely almost choked on his brandy as realisation dawned on him. Coughing he leaned forward in his chair fighting for composure.

“Do you mean to imply, that the vice-ambassador is not the only person taking advantage of this rather ingenious means of transporting secret messages?”

“No.” Dubois owned sheepishly.

“Who else does?”

“I do.”

“And I take it, your message now ended up with your superior?”

A timid nod was all that could be given as an answer as our visitor seemed too embarrassed to make use of his vocal cords.

“So, are you just embarrassed, or are you compromised likewise?”

“The latter I fear.”

Holmes held out his hand.

“The note, M. Dubois.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“If I am to help you, I will need a complete picture of what is going on. I need to know, just how deep your troubles are.” Holmes replied, still holding out his hand.

With a resigned expression on his comely face, Frederic Dubois handed him a neatly folded and rolled up scrap of paper. All I could make out were two sides of narrowly written lines. The detective's eyes widened the more he read and he looked decidedly taken aback and flustered by the time he had finished reading the epistle. It was one of the few occasions, that Holmes did not pass something on to me to read through myself – or read it aloud.

“I dare say, your troubles are such, that I would rather be caught in the queen's bed with the queen's chambermaid than be in your shoes.”

After pondering on the message for a moment, Holmes asked with reluctance in his voice: “Did M. Blanchard read through all of your note?”

Our desperate client shook his head.

“Did he recognise the handwriting?”

“No.”

“At least that means you are safe for now,” Holmes concluded, an insinuating smile playing around his lips. “But this must stop! Before your affair leads to truly devastating results.”

He held up the paper, before handing it back to Dubois. The young French man mumbled something that neither of us could catch.

“Excuse me?” Holmes hence dug deeper.

Dubois was still mumbling, but at least this time we could understand part of what he had said, distinctly hearing the words “too late”.

“I cannot help but find this to be cosmic justice, somehow,” Holmes said with an exasperated shake of his head. “How long has your affair been going on?”

“About four months.”

“And too late already? You certainly don't lose any time to get yourself in as deep a trouble as possible.”

I knew at this point, that Holmes was pulling the man's leg and it did not sit well with the young man.

“I have not come here for you to moralize or to be laughed at.” he flared up.

“No, you came so I would retrieve a lost fountain pen, containing an improper love letter from a prostitute to the French vice-ambassador.

“Exactly!” the man cried out, straightening himself once more.

“So, just to at last get all the data put into order: You swapped fountain pens with Blanchard's mistress last night if I gather that correctly.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do afterwards?”

“I went to see...” his voice trailed off. Holmes nodded to show he understood who was meant anyhow.

“So you went to exchange something else, I presume. Or did your clothes happen to stay on?”

Looking at his client, whose face now had assumed a magnificent shade of deep red once again and then, when no answer came continued:

“I take that as a decided 'no'. Where did your clothes end up? I mean were they hung up or were they simply discarded otherwise.”

Our client's voice was barely audible: “The latter.”

“Where was your coat?”

“On the floor.” was the whispered answer.

“And you are sure, that at this point, both pens were in their place?”

Dubois shrugged his shoulders. “They should have been.”

“So you did not see them?”

“I did not check.”

“Of course not, you had other things in mind.”

Despite his embarrassment, Dubois once again flared up: “Would you think of fountain pens when in the presence of a most bewitching young lady?” 

“I dare say that depends very much on the situation,” Holmes answered as suavely as was possible considering his hoarseness, a wide smirk on his face. “Considering yours, I admit that it would be unlikely I would be thinking of fountain pens. So there is a strong possibility that it fell out of pocket and rolled underneath any given piece of furniture that was in close vicinity to the very spot where your coat fell onto the floor?”

“But what if Eli… - if she finds it?”

Holmes pondered for a moment or two on the question before answering: “I dare say the neither of you has a right to make any accusations. All of you involved are in the happy position to be equally immoral.”

Furiously Frederic Dubois got up.

“I don't think it is your place to insult me, Mr Holmes!”

“Rather take it as a consolation. If it were not, it would be even harder to get out of this mess. As it is, you now have a variety of options open to the four of you – well, five, considering your copiousness. And for that fifth person, I strongly recommend you find a solution quickly, he is the only one involved without the least to blame and he should not suffer the consequences. Is that understood?!”

Our visitor gave a curt nod of his head, the anger ceasing to burn within him. He now looked properly humbled, much like a child having been told of by a parent.

“And if the pen is not in her room?” he dared to ask after a while.

“Then I suggest you come back here. Though perhaps you might want to try the other lady's apartment first, perhaps it never ended up in your pocket.”

“At least that is one thing, I am sure about, sir. It was in my pocket when I left her rooms. I am in the habit of checking such things.”

“You did not when you left your lover.”

“I was running late.”

Holmes bend forward, his elbows on the table, cradling his forehead in his hands in sheer exasperation. - And I could not help but think to hide the amusement, that I myself was hard pressed to hide. When he had managed to straighten his face he looked up again, hands folded and his indexes resting on his lips in contemplation, though still a twinkle to his eyes.

“You have not coincidentally checked your pockets again when you realised the pen in your right-hand inner pocket was missing?”

“No.”

“One more question, why did you hand M. Blanchard your pen then, knowing it could compromise you?”

“It had fallen out when I got dressed in a hast and I realised M. Blanchard's pen was not where it should have been, so I put it back where I thought it belonged and handed it to him. Only when he began to look confused and handed me my own note back, did I realise that the other pen was missing, too.”

“So two pens fell out of your pocket in one night? Curious.” Holmes gazed up at the ceiling, deep in thought. 

“This engagement between Blanchard and Miss Heatherly – is it a love match?”

“No, it was arranged.”

“Could it be, Miss Heatherly knows about her fiancé's affair?”

The young man looked confused.

“I mean, is there anything that would indicate she wants to get out of this engagement?”

“Not to my knowledge. Apart from perhaps...”

“Yes?”

“When she told me about the baby she was expecting she told me she cannot possibly think of raising the child with a man that is not the father.”

“Then I hope you prove yourself to be a worthy man, M. Dubois. This child decidedly will need some honourable role models and loving parents. Grow up and be a man, M. Dubois and face up to what you have done to your superior. As said, you are in the happy position as to have him in the same situation. And now, good day!”

Dubois got up, bowing curtly towards me, then thanked Holmes rather testily and stalked out of the room.

“You seemed to have ruffled his feathers considerably,” I remarked, looking out of the window closest to our dining table and watching Frederic Dubois halt a Hansom and depart.

“Well, I dare say he deserved it, Watson.” Holmes lit his pipe, looking thoughtful. “You, of course, have figured out, who is the lover of M. Frederic Dubois?”

“From what I have gathered I would say it is Miss Heatherly. But Holmes – this is just beyond belief!”

“But alas, you are right,” he smirked in an insinuating manner. “I have to say, I was rather taken aback myself, when I read her name under that 'charming' little epistle of hers.”

“So what was written in the note?” I could not help asking, remembering Holmes' reaction to it at the time.

“Watson, I do not dare to repeat any of the innuendos in a living room and unless I get married one day and have a wife, I will not repeat them in a bedroom either. - And even then I most probably will resort to something more tasteful.” As he spoke, his gaze fell onto his bedroom door.

“And now, Watson, I am ready to follow your advice and tuck myself into bed. Do you mind ringing for a hot water bottle? I can feel myself starting to get the shivers.”

I did as he requested, my eyes falling onto the deserted bowl of porridge.

“And the porridge?” I asked him, as he was about to close the door behind him.

“Give it to the chickens.”

“What chickens?”

“The ones that will lay the eggs accompanying the bacon for my breakfast tomorrow!”


End file.
